


Sacrifices

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, F/M, Happy Ending, Mutually Unrequited, POV Alternating, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a reason that the Holmes brothers aren’t close, but it is not a reason most people would expect: it’s a woman. A specific woman. And even as years have gone by and circumstances have changed and realizations have been made, the players in this family drama still keep their thoughts to themselves until they absolutely can’t any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I got an anonymous prompt on my Tumblr with what I thought was one of the most interesting prompts I've ever been asked to write: _Could you write a Mythea again, please? Something that implies that the origin of the Holmes sibling rivalry is Anthea. Sherlock is supportive now, but Mycroft is still awkward, even though Sherlock has visibly moved on and realized his asexual nature. Happy ending, please._ After mentioning I was going to write some other fics first and the anonymous prompter asking me about it I got into a conversation with someone else and decided to write this fic with alternating POVs: the first three parts are first person (Mycroft, Sherlock and Anthea respectively) and the fourth part is the third person POV resolution. Hopefully all of you will enjoy this.

**Mycroft**

I have always told him that to care is to get hurt. That sentiment is a chemical defect. That to allow someone to get under your skin is the surest way to allow them to strike at your heart. I have always told Sherlock to keep himself distant, to keep himself apart, and to not allow himself to get close.

I should have listened to my own advice, I suppose.

I spend more time with her than I don’t. I interact with her more than anyone else on the face of this earth. I do not think I could function properly, let alone do my job properly, if I did not have her by my side. And I have spent a long time wanting more from our arrangement than I have allowed myself to have. But I suppose that is not to be.

He wanted her. I could see the interest flare up when they were in a room together, the definite spark of interest in his eyes. She intrigued him. She still does, I suppose. She is a puzzle he can’t pick apart, and my brother adores those. They aggravate him, I’m sure, but they’re the things he can go to in the late hour when his mind is whirring and he can’t sleep, as he did when he was a child. And Andrea is certainly a mystery.

His attraction to her was not, however.

I know, because I feel it myself. It’s more than a physical thing. She has an intellect that rival either of ours. She is very near our equal, actually, which is in equal turns exhilarating and frightening. She has a dry sense of humor, a subtle sarcastic tone which she uses sparingly with the finesse of an expert swordsman, cutting her opponent off at the knees. She knows how to wield silence and inferred disdain like a weapon she’s been trained in since she was young. John Watson is ruffled by it time and again, it seems. Poor man. He’s not the only one.

I see more glimpses of the real her, though. The smiles, where the corners of her eyes crinkle just slightly and her face becomes warm as her lips curl up. The warm laugh that manages to send a shiver down my spine as it soothes my soul. The talk of things that interest her that she thinks no one would assume she’d like, such as poetry and cooking, trashy television and writing short stories based in worlds unlike our own. These moments are brief, but I treasure them.

And she knows me, better than most. Better than my family, better than my brother’s friends, better than the sycophants in the government and the people I interact with day in and day out who want pieces of me and my time. She knows what soothes me, what comforts me. She knows how to fix a rotten day or how to celebrate a good one.

But she doesn’t know who I really am.

Mores the pity for that, I suppose.

One day I would like to tell her, to show her. But I can’t, not with the specter of my brother around. He may have tossed his fascination with her aside, but I have no earthly clue if it was mutual, if she ever fancied him the same way. If there was ever anything between them. If there ever _could_ have been.

If they’d ever wanted there to be.

So for now I will sit back, wait for him to accept his fate for the incident on Christmas Day, and wait. I’ve been waiting so long. I can wait a little longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sherlock**

My brother is a bloody idiot. A world class imbecile. For someone who prides himself on being one of the most intelligent men in the room at any given point he’s an idiot if he doesn’t see that he’s going to die an old, lonely and bitter man if he doesn’t make some changes in his life.

And if he was _really_ as smart as he wants everyone to think he is he’d make a move on Andrea.

But no, he holds back. Sentiment is a weakness. Caring is a disadvantage. That’s his mantra, that’s what he lives by. I’ve learned it’s a lonely way to live. Not that I’m sexually interested in anyone, or romantically interested. It’s not a thing that interests me. But I at least have friends. I have John and Mary, I have Molly and Lestrade, I have Mrs. Hudson. I have people who _care_.

Mycroft has Andrea, and he doesn’t even realize if he’d just ask, if he’d put himself out there, he’d have someone who cares as well.

I suppose he thinks I have interest. I might have considered it, at some point. When I was questioning things. When I was trying to be the way everyone else was, to be _normal_. She caught my eye, I’ll admit, and I’d considered trying to see about a dalliance. And he would have let me. My brother would have stepped aside, being noble and gallant about the matter, stuffing his emotions down.

Hell, nothing actually happened between her and I and he’s been _noble_ and _gallant_ about how he’s felt about the entire situation for nearly fifteen years.

He’s never even asked. Never thought to ask if there was anything more than a vague and passing interest on my part. He’s just assumed he knows me, knows what’s in my heart, knows what’s in my head. He thinks he knows me better than I know myself and that’s the problem. I’ve changed greatly in the last few years, more than he’s realized. More than he’s cared to see. He’s still running on assumptions I’m the young boy he spent years leading around by the hand, the teenager he looked on as a nuisance, the adult he grew to loathe.

I’m more than that. I’ve changed.

And if he knew what was in his best interest he’d change too, let himself be happy with the person he’s head over heels for, and stop thinking he knows everything about everything. He doesn’t, because if he did he’d have realized long ago I’m not competition, not in any way, shape or form.


	3. Chapter 3

**Anthea**

I never wanted to be a wedge between them.

It wasn’t as though their relationship wasn’t fractured before I got there. There was strife because of poor choices made on both sides, partly because of Mycroft’s tendency to consider himself superior to emotion and his need to impart that sentiment on his brother and partly because of Sherlock’s tendency to rebel and stick it to his brother. It’s ridiculous, really, how they do petty little things to spite each other. But their history with each other is so fraught with hurts, both big and small, that there were problems _long_ before I entered the picture.

I was told that this could be a dream job, if I could get along with the arsehole of a boss I was going to have. And it was true, Mycroft was quite an arse the first few weeks. But he must have seen potential in me because he was forgiving of mistakes, and he taught me in his own way. I grew comfortable around him and, in time, he began to grow comfortable around more. Or at least more comfortable. He didn’t _completely_ let his guard down, he was never _completely_ open or honest, but I could tell when he was making an effort to be more genuine and I appreciated it. It was nice, to see a different side of him, even if it only little more than a glimpse.

It was months before I found out he had a brother. Sherlock barged into the office, sized me up with a very speculative look, and then proceeded to go on about what his brother was up to. The look he had given me betrayed his interest. I was more than just his brother’s latest assistant to him; I was a challenge. I was an enigma, a puzzle for him to solve. And he took great delight in it, too, popping up when I was not by Mycroft’s side, making his deductions about my moods, my habits, my preferences. He understood many things about me.

But not everything.

Sherlock has a saying he likes to say quite often when he’s making a point, about how a person sees, but does not observe. And he likes to think he observed me in those days, but no. He simply saw me. Oh, he saw a great deal, but I learned from a very young age to keep what I wanted to keep what I truly felt, what I loved most and what I yearned for more than anything in the world well and truly hidden. They can be used against you, after all, your passions, and letting them be known is quite dangerous. Letting Sherlock know would be foolish.

Letting Mycroft know, less so, perhaps.

He knows some of my passions. He knows about my love of opera, as evidenced by the tickets I find in my possession when there’s an extraordinary talent in town. I always offer to let him accompany me, but he always declines and so I go with someone else. He knows about my appreciation of fine wine, which he shares, and when we share a meal there is nothing but the best bottles at our table, whether we’re at a fine restaurant or at his home. He even knows about my little guilty pleasure passions, like a few select trashy soaps and my love of certain discontinued products from Lush. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an entire section of his basement that’s been temperature controlled and kept moisture free filled with bath bombs for when I feel a bit down.

Which is why I don’t understand why he is so hesitant to admit what I can so plainly see: he cares for me.

I wonder, sometimes, if he thinks Sherlock still holds a fascination for me. Apparently he doesn’t realize Sherlock and I had our chat about that. He’s confident he’s solved me and that’s that. Perhaps Mycroft thinks he’s attracted to me. That’s laughable. Sherlock thinks of women the way he thinks of men: as human beings, not as sexual objects. He finds no attraction in either sex, which makes the insistence of the tabloid rags that he’s in some torrid love affair with John Watson so laughable. He’s as attracted to John Watson as he is me, and he’s as attracted to me as he is to a rock. I doubt he’d feel romantic feelings towards anyone, either. I think the world is quite lucky he feels friendship towards people. If he didn’t, he’d be an even worse beast than he was prior to John.

Or perhaps Mycroft thinks if he voices these feelings out loud Sherlock would mock him for it, throw words said to him back in his face. That is a possibility, of course; there was a particular conversation when they were dealing with The Woman that springs to mind that Mycroft related to me that Sherlock could snipe back at his brother. But Sherlock is different now. I don’t think Mycroft realizes that. Perhaps he doesn’t want to. Perhaps he wants his brother to stay the way he’s always been, for whatever reason. But times change, and people change, and Sherlock among them. And…perhaps Mycroft needs to change. Not too much, not enough so that he’s no longer the man I care for, but enough that he realizes this has to end.

Sherlock will be gone by week’s end. Gone and most likely never coming back. They need to patch things up before it’s too late, make amends while they still can. They need to stop making me the reason they have this breach between them. And if they won’t be grown-ups, if they still insist on being childish, then I may just have to do it for them. It’s a sacrifice they need to make, even if I have to force them to make it.


	4. Chapter 4

Silence between the three of them was never awkward but it was always strained. They were always just on the edge of something; a snide remark, a rude observation, a point which absolutely _had_ to be made, a conversation that just could not be dropped until someone had the last word.

This silence, however, was different. 

Mycroft and Anthea were accompanying Sherlock on his rounds to say his final good-byes before the morning. John and Mary would be at the airfield, so they would get theirs then; right now he was on his way to Molly’s home. Mycroft had, rather gently for him, explained to her the situation, since Sherlock and the others had chosen to keep her in the dark. Sherlock had requested to spend his last evening of relative freedom with her, in a rather eerie replay of the events after his great fall, and so Anthea knew this would be her final chance to get them to make amends.

She had her back to the partition separating them from the driver, and she rapped on the window three times. The driver slowed and pulled over to the curb. Sherlock had been looking out the window and then pulled his attention to her. “Why did we stop?” he asked.

“You and your brother need to talk,” she replied, laying her mobile in her lap. “You avoided this conversation the last time, and it’s festered for three years, and the three of us know your chances of returning are slim. Have the conversation now.”

Both Holmes brothers looked at her with wide eyes, and Mycroft turned away first. “This is not the appropriate time or place, Andrea,” he said.

“There will never be a more appropriate time or place,” she said. She looked at each of them, seeing them avoiding looking at the other, and then sighed. “Fine. If you won’t say it, I will. Mycroft, you care about me.” He made a scoffing sound. “You do, don’t deny it.”

“I’ll deny it if I want,” he said defensively.

“Then you’ll be lying through your teeth,” Sherlock said.

“And what do _you_ know of my…my…feelings?” Mycroft asked in a rather snide tone.

“That you have them, and you rather wouldn’t,” Sherlock said. “That you have more than friendly feelings for Andrea but you won’t do anything about them because you think I have interest in her.” He turned back to the window. “Newsflash, Mycroft: I have no interest in Andrea or any other person on the face of this earth, romantically or sexually. She was a puzzle, nothing more, and I solved her. Or I attempted to, at least.”

Mycroft was quiet. “So you are not, in fact, attracted to Andrea,” he said slowly.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “You are an idiot sometimes, an honest to God idiot. You must have been looking for any reason at all not to act on your own attraction towards her.” He turned to face his brother again. “How many years did you waste, brother mine? Of all the years you’ve felt this attraction, how many years did you spend convincing yourself to hold off because of me? Five? Ten? More?” 

“Too many,” Mycroft murmured, turning to face Anthea. “Still. That does not mean it’s mutual.”

“Of all the…” Sherlock said, his face crinkling in annoyance. “You are not only an imbecile you’re blind, too. I’m ashamed that you think you’re the smarter one. It is very much mutual. Even the dumbest of the dumb can see that.”

“Sherlock is absolutely right,” Anthea said with an amused smile. “Mycroft…I have never been attracted to your brother. Ever. I generally find him to be interesting but just as much of an annoyance as you do.”

“Wonderful to know how you truly feel,” Sherlock murmured.

Anthea ignored him, turning to Mycroft. “I prefer you, Mycroft. I’ve preferred you from the start. And I’ll prefer you till the end. If you do not want anything to happen for propriety’s sake I understand. I accept that decision. But I needed this all out there. I needed to stop being the reason there is a gulf between the two of you. You can dislike each other for a multitude of other reasons but I no longer want to be one of them.”

Mycroft studied her. “So if I were to pursue you, court you in the manner to which you should be courted…”

“I couldn’t care less,” Sherlock said.

“And I would be very agreeable to that,” Anthea said with a smile.

Mycroft nodded, then turned to his brother. “Are you absolutely—”

“I’m 100% absolutely sure I have no interest, it’s about bloody time, at least one of us will make Mum happy, can we _please_ start moving again now?” Sherlock asked. “I have less than sixteen hours left until I’m being sent off to certain death and I’d like to spend it with someone who I owe the whole truth too and because of sleeping time I have approximately eight hours to start begging for and earn her forgiveness. And I’m sure the two of you would like time alone.”

“By all means, we can continue on to Miss Hooper’s residence now,” he said, nodding to Anthea. She rapped on the partition again and the car began moving, and Sherlock turned to face the window again. He leaned in closer to Anthea at that point. “I did not think it would take such drastic measures.”

“I had hoped a man as brilliant as yourself would have realized things much earlier on,” she murmured.

“Even brilliant men occasionally make mistakes,” he replied.

She reached over for his hand. “Fortunately, you still have time to correct this one,” she said, squeezing it gently. He gripped her hand tightly before pulling away and settling into the seat. She grinned at that, confident that no matter what tomorrow brought, it would be a new chapter in her life, one that could be something quite grand.


End file.
